


Unmitigated Disaster

by DisasterLesbean



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, PTSD, Secret Santa, sort of dark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-27 14:15:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17163491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DisasterLesbean/pseuds/DisasterLesbean
Summary: Hermione is working to revive Bellatrix despite her death against the wishes of her friends and family. She'd like some closure, but maybe also something more that she isn't sure she understands just yet.





	Unmitigated Disaster

Hermione knows magic better than most of her peers. She understands the origins, the theory, the history, and the practice of magic. After the war, she knows what it feels like to use it and have it used on her. She knows what dark magic feels like. She knows what it feels like to have it hang around her throat, digging into her soul. She knows what it feels like to have it slam into her chest and rattle around her ribcage. She knows what it feels like when pain floods her system and courses through every cell at the beckon of a madwoman. She knows magic. Yet she missed it until it was too late. 

It didn’t heal. It wouldn’t heal. Fleur explained in Shell Cottage that the knife Bellatrix had used was cursed. That it still is cursed. Hermione had taken the blade after the battle was over. She was helping the rest of the volunteers clean up the aftermath. The bodies were the first to be gathered. They identified what side the bodies had fought on and lined them in the area accordingly. After, they would identify each individual. She was laying down a death eater corpse when she saw her.

She laid there dead, no longer a threat to Hermione. Despite that, Hermione’s heart raced and she felt her stomach drop out. Shouts of crucio filled her ears, knees digging sharply into her hips, a knife splitting and dragging through her flesh. Her focus waivered, her vision tunneled on the pale dead woman before her. She could still see the dark witch’s cruel twisting wand movements. Her broken wrecked teeth flashing into a perverse smile at her suffering. 

It was as if a veil had dropped between the world and Hermione. On one side was the still smoking Hogwarts and distant crying, on the other was Bellatrix and her on the floor. She could hear Bellatrix’s questions echo in the large room. The same question demanded multiple times at once by the ghost of Bellatrix’s voice. Hermione unable to stop the torture, unwilling to break beneath that woman. The veil was only lifted when a student accidently bumped into her on his way to dropping off his own death eater corpse. 

She doesn’t know why she took the blade that day. It was a decision not wholly her own. It was as if she were a puppet being drawn in by strings she could not see. 

She fingers it now, idly playing with it as she has come to do. She can feel the darkness radiating from it. The curse that is woven into the steel and threading through her arm. She’s careful not to cut herself, a habit but not a mindless one. She’s sitting in her home, pondering the next line in her letter.

After the war, unnecessary money and glory was lauded on the golden trio. She hadn’t wanted any, neither had Harry. She tried to refuse it all but Professor McGonagall talked her into buying a home before diverting the rest of the money to those who needed it more than her. She’s eternally grateful Professor McGonagall had advised her to get a house, it provides a space she needs. A home, somewhere away from the others, and somewhere to plan without interruption. Most importantly, somewhere Bellatrix can live without being seen. 

She traces a finger along the length of the blade. Her skin feels tight, thinner than it should be after so many months. What should be a scar is still thinly healed skin. Ready to reopen at the slightest snag. It has, many times even. That’s what set her down this path but not what keeps her going. She’s lost count of how many times the scar has reopened. Idly itching it turns into skin splitting apart. A thread from a sweater catching on it. It’s not the scar. Harry understands the best. The scar is engraved on his forehead, on display for the whole world. It hurts but it's not what keeps him in the past. The others don’t understand so much.

Since the war she’d had to endure many of their interventions. Harry was always silent during them. When it became apparent the scar wouldn’t heal they all became worried. Their concern over her wellbeing was overshadowed by their own conceit. They presumed to know what was best for her. After a particularly long day trying to advocate for creatures rights, a matter none of the heroes could bestir themselves for, her scar reopened and bled all over a letter. She had nearly destroyed her office she was so enraged. She didn't. She instead took steadying breaths and swore she would end it. Her friends did not approve of her plan.

They confronted her once again. They thinly alluding to her being mad. 

“Find your answers here and now instead of digging up skeletons!” 

There was no solution or cure here and now. She had looked. She’s Hermione Granger and they assumed she hadn’t thoroughly sought any answer but the truth. The curse was intrinsically tied to Bellatrix. No spell, ritual, or plant would change that. They didn’t understand. Harry did.  
The shadows that plague Harry, the darkness that lines beneath his eyes and keep him from moving on isn’t the scar. It’s just the easiest excuse, the first line of the mind to fall. Everyone can see it, everyone thinks they know what it means. 

It wasn’t the scar that haunted her, at least not the one on her arm.

It was the scar behind her eyelids, it was the scar cursed into her mind. It was cackles that echoed in her dark lonely room. It was the breath that catches in her throat when she spotted anyone with wild dark hair. She started her journey because of a wound that wouldn’t heal but continues it because of sweaty twisted sheets and a hand clenched too tightly around a wand. 

She is here now, awake later than she has any right being because of her cursed journey. Her every thought was consumed by Bellatrix Lestrange. The way she had prowled towards her. How she found herself arrested in the other woman’s gaze. Trapped by the power she exuded. The woman was a storm. Wild, uncontrollable, unforgettable. She can admit now that she was obsessed by Bellatrix, she still is but for entirely different reasons. 

She drags the edge of the blade over her fingertips, the sound of the scrape across her fingerprint bounces around the room. The fireplace crackles, adding to the building symphony. Blade, flesh, fire. She’s at the mansion and she’s here. She’s always there no matter where she is. This letter is wrenching her to and from the past. The mansion, the resurrection, the now. She needs it to be in order on the parchment but her mind won’t allow it. She moves, setting down the knife and picking up her quill. 

The silence is disturbed by her movements. The familiar scratch of the quill against parchment settles her. The illusion of the mansion broken for a few moments. She writes what the people think they want to hear. She writes what will get her what she wants. She writes lies hidden in superfluous loops she learned from Narcissa. 

She hasn’t spoken to Narcissa since their correspondence during those frantic months. 

Once Hermione was resolved, she set herself down the path to bringing Bellatrix back to life. Her friends upheld their side, trying to dissuade her. She pretended to listen, pretended to stop her pursuit. Harry knew she didn’t stop, he knew but didn’t stop her. He didn’t encourage or discourage her. She quickly ran into a roadblock with her research. The easiest method was void as the resurrection stone had been destroyed. This left her with less favorable options. There were other options to be had but they nearly all required a body. 

As it turns out, bodies were hard to procure. At least if one was trying to find a death eater’s corpse. After the war, the Ministry wasted no time burning the corpses of fallen death eaters. It was meant as a message. The destruction of everything that was leftover. Anything Voldemort had touched, any loyalties he accumulated, were now ash. Including, or especially, the corpse of Bellatrix Black. 

It was those next months that followed that changed everything.

The search became more desperate. She needed to bring Bellatrix back but it seemed every avenue had been robbed from her. She ran out of material from the Hogwarts library. She was searching through the Wizarding Library and special ordering books. She was also researching more into Bellatrix herself. 

She was looking into old school records, newspaper clippings, and talking to those who knew her. The few she was willing to ask didn’t supply her with the answers she desired. It was as if an alert went out that she wasn’t included in. They’d gone beyond interventions and into disrupting her search. She had to remind herself that they were trying to help her despite the fact she knew what was best for herself. Eventually, it was Professor McGonagall who’d tell her about Bellatrix. Evidently, her friends had decided not to tell the professor her plans. 

Professor McGonagall had thought she wanted to know more about Bellatrix for closure, to soothe wounds. Hermione hated lying to the professor but knew she’d clam up like the others if she knew. That’s when it started. The professor’s admittance at Bellatrix’s brilliance, ingenuity, and her tenacity. Professor McGonagall spoke about her with some regret. Hermione supposed if she lost one of her smartest students to the other side she’d be regretful as well. It was those recollections from the professor, those memories that could have been, that piqued Hermione’s curiosity. She knew what she needed to bring the woman back but little about her. Her reading material changed. She still searched for any spell that could bring Bellatrix back but she found herself more invested in information on the woman.

There was plenty of information to be found on both the Blacks and the Lestranges and she devoured it. There was more on Bellatrix than she thought she’d find. She found plenty of propaganda and wanted posters but she also was able to find newspaper clippings and Hogwarts records on Bellatrix. In her day, she was the brightest witch of her age. 

Learning the witch who tortured her months prior was the pureblood equivalent of her was unnerving. The fact she couldn’t stop reading more, digging through anything she could get her hands on, was even more unsettling. She couldn’t stop. She didn’t want to admire Bellatrix but the more she learned the more she felt herself sliding into grudging respect. Bellatrix wasn’t just one of the greatest duelers this world has seen but she was also one of the best students Hogwarts had seen. It took weeks of obsessing over the witch and her family before material started running thin, that’s when she’d find the secret to bringing Bellatrix back. 

It was by accident she’d walked into a small bookshop in Diagon Alley. She hadn’t even known it had existed, possibly due to its proximity to Knockturn Alley. The shopkeeper was a small man with an uneasy smile. She wandered around the store, idling towards the bookshelves. She was careful not to turn her back to the shopkeeper. She found familiar books, books she’d found in every other place she’d searched. The futile search was beginning to get to her by that point, her stress and anger vying for attention.

The shopkeeper who had been organizing items at the counter looked up at her. “I think you’re looking for something a little different.” His voice was smooth, smoother than she thought she’d hear this close to Knockturn. His dress robes are clean and properly cut. His appearance was orderly in clean compared to the dreary nature of the shop. He wasn’t the kind of man she wanted to be near any longer than she had to. 

“Am I?”

“Try two doors down, the window is broken.” With that, he returned his attention to the box.

She walked two doors down as instructed and found the broken window. The shop was empty save for an older woman and a row of locked chests. The older woman didn’t look up to her or acknowledge her. 

“I was told you have what I need?”

“I always have what you need.” At least the woman knew she was here but she wasn’t anymore forthcoming. “Try the third chest.” Hermione stepped forward cautiously, edging around the old woman and towards the chest. It opened at touch and revealed a single item. It was a pile of parchment tied together with rope. It was exactly what she’d needed and she knew it immediately.

Now, as she writes the letter, the parchments that would spell Bellatrix’s return lay in her desk drawer. Safe and warded but always nearby. The woman hadn’t taken her coin but rather a favor. She’d agreed and left to search through the papers. After months of fruitless searching, she’d found it. Hermione hadn’t anticipated needing to ask for Narcissa’s help. She didn’t know Narcissa’s feelings towards Bellatrix or the thought of her return, nor did she know whether she would even help Hermione. Regardless, she reached out.

She’d received what she is now modeling her own letter after. An answer that was not an answer at all. A letter colored with niceties that meant absolutely nothing with the truth buried beneath. Despite this, she’d received the answer she needed. Narcissa had allowed her to come over to Malfoy Manor.

Unfortunately, her plan didn’t pan out as well as her correspondence. Narcissa noticed her ulterior motives quickly.

“What is it you are really here for, Miss Granger?” Narcissa’s cool voice cut through any lies Hermione could have construed.

“I was wondering if any of Bellatrix’s things are still here.” Narcissa grew stiff at her response. Her eyes darted around as if to see where the aurors were hiding. 

“I wouldn’t keep any of her possessions, just as the ministry ordered.”

“I wasn’t aware they did.”

“They burned her body.” There was a slight curl of her fingers at that, Hermione wouldn’t have noticed if she wasn’t carefully watching the other woman. “It’s only logical they wouldn’t leave anything else that could be used.”

“I’m sorry.” She didn’t know what it was to have siblings but she’s spent years with the Weasleys. She didn’t pretend to understand Narcissa and Bellatrix’s relationship but having a government ransack your house and burn your sister’s body without consolstation or mercy would test anyone.

“I’m not.” More twitches of the fist that could never form. “I think we’ve run out of time.” It was a dismissal.

“Please, I need to see anything that could have been left behind.” It’s was a last attempt. It was a desperate attempt. It was the only spell she has found after months of failure that could bring Bellatrix back. It was very likely her last shot. Narcissa ushered her out the door with all the grace of a pureblood matriarch but she was still outside the door before she could enter another plea.

The door was nearly closed when Narcissa broke the silence. “You should try her mansion.” 

“If they didn’t leave anything here why would they leave her house alone?” 

“Because only someone with a death wish would go there.” The door was shut.

She didn’t get what she needed from the manor but she wasn’t empty handed. She hadn’t found the location of Bellatrix’s manor during her research, likely because the ministry didn’t want anyone easily finding it, but she knew she could find it. Within hours she was proven right. 

She didn’t know what she expected Bellatrix’s house to be. Dark and gloomy most definitely, with Narcissa comment she expected danger, she hadn’t foreseen what it really was. She’d expected to have to fight when she entered the grounds so she entered with her wand drawn. She wasn’t attacked as she expected and Narcissa implied she would be. Instead, it was as if resistance snapped. Her legs had to dig in to walk through a field that didn’t want her entering. It snapped leaving Hermione stumbling over her own feet. It wasn’t quite a snap despite the fact she nearly fell over, it was more like it relaxed. The field didn’t need to expel her, even the grounds felt looser. The house was primed to keep her out but now it is letting her in. 

The interior was organized chaos. The house was tinged with dark energy, the items overflowing with it. If it wasn’t dark before Bellatrix got her hands on it she made it that way. Dark magic lined the hallways and filled the rooms. There was a mess but the pathways were clear, garments strewn throughout the house. Not wasting time, she set off to find what she needed.

She found Bellatrix’s hair easily enough, there was still some left in an older hairbrush. The clothes were easy since they were everywhere. Even finding a picture was easier than she anticipated. It was a striking difference than the woman she had fought against. Her hair looked clean and lively, her face less worn, but the most striking part was her smile. She seemed like a different woman. Azkaban robbed her of who she was before. She grabbed the picture and moved on. Next was the hardest part. 

She hadn’t run into any issues like she was expecting. Although danger lurked it left her alone. She didn’t want to disturb the uneasy peace but she had to. She’d worked out what would work, what items would fully restore Bellatrix according to the ritual, and this was the easiest way. She set her wand on the floor and muttered the first words. The wood pulled up, splintering away and into Hermione’s hand. The pressure from before returned. She fell to her knees as the building groaned, the dark objects surrounding her shook. The ritual is more likely to succeed with the more Hermione provides. She needs the wood for a higher chance of it working. The pressure lifted. Not all the way like before, but enough for Hermione to stand. It was like a watchdog, it allowed her to get the next few boards but one toe out of line would spell disaster. She had expected to have died going to the house. She didn’t. Whatever protections lay in place seemed to have given her a pass. 

Hermione knows now, that they did. Her hand does not write this. Her hand threads together a story that was entirely different.

She was exceptionally versed in wards. She’d spent a year protecting their camp with wards and afterwards had taken the time to learn more. With this knowledge, she warded her house for Bellatrix’s return. She didn’t need the woman breaking out and killing her way through London. She cleared her home of any obvious weapons and was on high alert. She knew she probably couldn’t take Bellatrix in a duel but with her being unarmed Hermione stood on better ground.

She moved furniture out of the way in the living room and started setting the ritual up. She placed the wood in the shape of a human body, threw Bellatrix’s clothes over the boards, and set the hair at the top. She placed the picture near the boards and hoped for the best. It was a longshot, the ritual even stated there was a high chance it wouldn’t work. She sat down and started the incantation. On the third repetition, she stopped. There was no indication whether or not it was working but it was time to move on to the next phase. She dragged her wand across her hand, uttering a cutting curse, and moved it over the board. The blood hit the wood like fire dripping into gasoline. It started the process. The boards turned to flesh inside the clothes, the hair grew to fit the picture, and an enemy was reborn. 

Bellatrix looked like the picture, body unbroken from daily dementor visits. When she looked up and at Hermione, who had stepped away as the ritual started working, her lips twisted into a mocking smile. 

“How unexpected.” She lounges back, her eyes surveyed the area, before settling on Hermione. She’s taking in her surroundings but putting forth a guise of confidence. 

“You don’t seem surprised.”

“I’ve long since been surprised by anything.”

The taunt slips from her tongue before she thinks to bite it. “Not even Molly Weasley?” There, new face same rage. Bellatrix’s face twisted into a familiar expression, one that haunts her. Rage and indignation. 

“How dare you!” She’s launching at Hermione unsteadily. Rusty from just coming back to life and the unfamiliarity with her body causes her to be slow enough for Hermione to side step her. 

“Stop!”

“I’ll kill you and then the Potter boy!” She turns to attack once more but Hermione’s wand is already drawn and pointed in her direction.

“I wouldn’t.”

“Or what? You’ll kill me?” She’s condescending, mocking Hermione as if she is child incapable of killing. “You didn’t go through all the effort to bring me back just to kill me again.” She thinks she’s right and it caused Hermione’s hand to tighten further. Hermione knows Bellatrix. She’s read everything there is to have read on the woman and her family. Bellatrix doesn’t know Hermione. She claims to have higher knowledge, she claims to know Hermione’s strengths or weaknesses but she doesn’t. Hermione wouldn’t hesitate to kill her. She’d rather not until she has what she needs but she will if she has to. If the only outcome of months of research, a rift in her friendships and family, and a near obsession was to have killed Bellatrix herself, then she would be fine with it.

“Try me.” Ron calls this her Gryffindor voice, the one that he knows means she’s serious. It must be universal because Bellatrix shifts back.

“Looks like we’ve gone and grown up muddy.” 

“Don’t call me that.”

“Why, does it hurt your feelings?”

“Because I lived and you died. The only reason you are alive right now is me. A mudblood. So don’t call me it when I won and you lost.” Bellatrix’s face is pinched but eventually relaxes. She doesn’t attack again, at least not then. She walks closer to Hermione but doesn’t attack or try to disarm her. Hermione lets her walk closer but is sure to keep the wand away from Bellatrix’s hands. 

“My, we have grown. What do you plan to do with me?” It was a loaded question. Hermione didn’t quite know what she planned to do. She wanted some closure but how to go about it she wasn’t sure. She wanted her scar fixed, she wanted the woman to explain herself, she wanted justice, she wanted to kill her, she wanted to know how the brightest witch of her age could become Voldemort’s lieutenant, she wanted it all. She knew the other woman wouldn’t just give her any information. 

“I want answers.”

“Don’t we all.” Her response was surprisingly bitter. Losing the war she dedicated her life to must hurt.

“I want answers from you.” 

“Why should I give you anything?”

“I brought you back.”

“For your own purposes. I owe you nothing.”

Hermione had to take a breath to calm herself, she knew getting answers wouldn’t be easy. “The house is warded, you can’t leave. You have a room.” She could try to torture it out of Bellatrix but she didn’t want to go down that road. She didn’t want to let the woman change her. She’d have to be patient, find some way to needle it out of the woman.

“Giving up so easy?”

“Some of us did a ritual bringing someone back to life and others just laid there.”

“Oh, I assure you I did more than just lay there.” 

“If you’re not going to tell me anything, I’ll take my leave.” Hermione walked away instead of cursing the woman half to death. She had been so caught up in bringing her back she hadn’t planned much for getting the woman to talk. 

Thus begun her accidental living situation with Bellatrix.

She supposes even though she had felt in control during the entire ordeal, Bellatrix had always guided it. Sitting in her desk at Bellatrix’s home, their home, she knows Bellatrix played her cards well. She had fully intended on killing the witch after getting the answers she needed. She’d been so obsessed with connecting who Bellatrix was with who she is, finding some reason to her descent to the dark, that she’d overlooked Bellatrix’s motives. She was far more manageable than she should have been. Now here Hermione is, writing a letter to recommend instating Bellatrix as a magical citizen once again. 

It wasn’t an easy road. It still isn’t. It works though, somehow. 

Hermione was always on guard at home now that Bellatrix lived there. She hadn’t given any hints of answers, nothing to make Hermione’s head clearer. She was a terrible houseguest. She left messes, would often tear the house up just to spite Hermione. She’d tried her luck at catching Hermione off guard a few times. They were brief scuffles as Hermione was extra careful. She was glad Bellatrix’s knowledge of wordless magic was small. They formed a routine. This was what she should have been more careful of.

She was so onguard about her wand and fighting Bellatrix she forgot to watch her words. Bellatrix painted her everyday. She was always around, she didn’t leave Hermione alone when she was home. She talked constantly, usually angry mocking words, sometimes not. As the days went on, the words grew less biting. Hermione started talking back. Her next mistake really. 

“The idiots!” 

“What now?” Bellatrix was sitting on her couch, eating the last of the pie Hermione had made.

“They keep pulling the age card on me at work. I’m too young to be a leader for an expedition apparently.”

“You said it yourself, they’re idiots.” 

“Idiots who control what I can do.” She wrenched the refrigerator door open.

“You are one of the golden trio.” Her voice is derisive as it always is whenever she refers to the war. “You brought me back from the dead. You’re the brightest witch of her age. Just become their boss and fire them. Or better yet, kill them.” Hermione stopped her movements for a moment, considering. “Oooo witchling, are you considering murder?” Hermione tossed her a caustic look. 

“No.” Becoming minister of magic however, had always held a certain allure. There was so much wrong in the magic world she could change. She could spite everyone who’s ever said she couldn’t, that muggleborns couldn’t. 

“You want to become the minister of magic.” Hermione looks over to Bellatrix finding her sitting up and staring at her. Her expression is odd but very intense. She looks more excited than she has seen her yet and it doesn’t bode well. “You’d make a good one.” That surprised Hermione.

“You wouldn’t have an issue with a muggleborn minister?” 

“It’s not about that.”

“When has it ever not been about that?”

“It’s about power.” She wasn’t tracking Bellatrix point. Bellatrix stood up, leaving her plate on the couch, and walked over towards her. She leaned against the wall nearest to Hermione. “It’s about power. You wanted answers? There’s one. Power is absolute, power rules. You need to be powerful to get power and vice versa. You have status and you definitely have the power. So, become the minister. Better than the simpering excuses for wizards the order will try to install.” 

“That’s why you followed him? Power?” 

“In part. There are many reasons, power being one of them. I respect power, I appreciate power. I desire power.” Those words combined with Bellatrix’s proximity caused Hermione to flush. Bellatrix reached behind Hermione, bodies sliding together. “You can’t let the cold air escape.” She murmured the words Hermione has told Bellatrix countless times a day. 

That day altered things. For one reason Hermione actively started looking into becoming the minister of magic. For the other, her body decided to have a new reaction to Bellatrix. She hadn’t expected to be attracted to Bellatrix, she didn’t plan on it. It complicated things. She’d hoped Bellatrix wouldn’t notice but of course she had. She used it to her advantage even. 

She knew she let her guard go, she knew she was becoming too relaxed near an unrepentant death eater, but she couldn't stop it. They spiralled into the weirdest relationship Hermione has ever been in. They’re not friends and they’re not enemies. She doesn’t trust Bellatrix not to kill her and Bellatrix doesn't trust her. They are enemies, they should be. Hermione still hates her and resents her for torturing her, for choosing the wrong side, but she craves her. She craves being in her presence, she craves their time together. Bellatrix can hold her own in a conversation and can make her laugh more than she has in years. She can also cut her deeper than anyone else she knows. Her words change with her mood and her mood is never stable. 

It’s because of her ease she let Bellatrix escape. 

She came home one night to find the place empty, no Bellatrix. Which meant she was now free and could be anywhere in the world. It’s her own fault. Whatever happens is on her. She brought back one of the world greatest killers and set her free with nothing to lose. She had to find her. She left her home and went searching through the streets. She found a body quickly. Male, wizard, broken neck, no wand. Bellatrix was now armed. There were no more clues, no more obvious signs of where she went. 

She decided to check Bellatrix’s house. She hoped she’d stop there before whatever her next step was. She was either incredibly lucky or more intuitive than she thought. She didn’t meet resistance when she walked onto the property, not even a bit like last time. It pulled at her, dragged her closer. 

Bellatrix was lounged in one of her chairs in the lobby, wand loosely rolling between her fingers. The wand stopped twirling in her direction. A threat Hermione knew not to respond to. “Took you long enough.” 

“I was busy checking a dead body.”

“Oh don’t sound so judgy it doesn’t suit you.” 

“What are you planning?”

“I’ve never planned anything in my life.”

“It shows.”

“Brave considering the wand pointed at you.”

“What is it you want?” 

Bellatrix is on her feet, wand pointed and ready to kill. “What I want? I want the Dark Lord to be alive. I want to torture Molly Weasley until she doesn’t know where her precious daughter is. What I want is to have won. Here I am, in this hell as a loser. I lost to children and an old woman who spends her time fretting over those same children.” Hermione didn’t know what to say. She did lose, her lord was dead, and she would never be allowed near Molly.

“Why haven’t you killed me?” She had to know. Bellatrix had every reason to. 

“You’re the last one on my side.” The wand finally lowered, still in her grasp but not pointed in her face. She moved to a couch and laid back out, no intention of leaving. 

“I’m not though. I’m not on your side.” 

“Witchling, we live together. You spend most of your time with me instead of your little friends. You spent months bringing me back. How are you not on my side?” 

“I hate you.” 

“Yet you won’t kill me. You would have at the beginning but now? You won’t.” 

Hermione couldn’t help but laugh. “You really think not killing someone is a testament to their affection?”

“Say what you will, rationalize it how you must, we both know the truth.”

“How did you escape?” She’d thought she’d warded it perfectly. 

“I just walked out.”

“You just...walked out?” 

“Yep, haven’t tried that till today. Thought it would be harder to be honest.”

“Harder? I spent weeks warding the place!” 

“Guess you should have spent a bit longer.” 

Hermione threw herself onto the couch next to a cackling Bellatrix. She put her head in her hands. She made it to where Bellatrix couldn’t pass through them, she knows she did. She made many modifications but none of them should have undercut the physical barrier to Bellatrix. Unless…

“It was the blood.” She bemoaned loudly.

“Blood?” Bellatrix asked curiously, unaware of the work that went into the ritual.

“I had to give something of myself in order to bring you back. Blood. I gave you the easiest way to bypass my wards because they read you as me.” 

“Not exactly brightest witch of her age material.”

“I had a lot going on.” A familiar snag piqued her arm and she cursed as blood started staining the shirt. “I definitely hate you.”

“Oh, that’s still bothering you?” Bellatrix’s tone was anything but innocent. Her eyes were glowing with a sense of pride that made Hermione want to punch her. She grabbed Hermione’s wrist, who twitched back before forcing herself to relax. “Why haven’t you mentioned it?”

“You won’t even tell me what I want to know I doubt you’d help with that yet.” 

“I’d always help my minister.” Bellatrix lifts the sleeve, carefully rolling it up. She brings the arm to her lips and kisses the rough tissue without breaking eye contact. The skin begins knitting itself back together, sealing for the final time. “We might never have chosen each other but we’re what we have.”

She’d tell herself she moved in with Bellatrix to keep an eye on her. She needed to make sure she kept her tentative peace and didn’t hunt Molly down. She’d tell herself many things until she stopped trying to explain it. It just was their reality. 

“Still writing the letter?” Bellatrix asked from the doorway, eyes on her knife. She walked over sitting on the desk next to Hermione. 

“Just finished. You’re going to be a citizen again soon.”

“I’m sure the order is going to love it.” 

“I’ll deal with them.” Bellatrix leans down to kiss her, pressing her into the chair. “I have to send it off then I’m free.” 

“I’ll be waiting.” 

She signs the letter with a flourish; Hermione Granger, Minister of Magic.


End file.
